


Accidental Babies

by mermaiddrunk



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaiddrunk/pseuds/mermaiddrunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Joan x Jaime accidental baby acquisition!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental Babies

She was bone tired, irritable and anxious to hear from her partner, when the doorbell finally rang. Joan practically sighed with relief until Moriarty, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the study, marooned in the centre of a sea of maps distractedly muttered, “It’s not him.”

“How do you know?” Joan was already getting up to open the door. Around her, case files, pictures and even a few x-rays lay scattered in haphazard piles. Moriarty’s sharp gaze flicked up towards Joan over the top of a mug as she sipped her third coffee in the last hour.

“He wouldn’t ring the bell,” she answered, as her eyes refocused on the co-ordinates she had spent the last few hours scowling at.

She was right. Of course, she was right, Joan thought irritably. Thirty two hours without sleep had made her brain soft and fuzzy around the edges. Even her earliest residency days hadn’t been as bad. But she couldn’t sleep. None of them could close their eyes, for fear of Marvin Frey leaving the country with a dozen underage girls in tow. Human trafficking was an ugly thing, and desperate times led to desperate measures. The proof of that was currently trailing her finger over a line on the map and muttering something in a language Joan didn’t know. It was uncanny how alike she and Sherlock were, when it came to this sort of thing. The latter was off meeting a contact and should have been back hours ago. Joan would have been worried if not for the text she’d received less than thirty minutes prior. ‘wz delayed. w Bell nw. c U sn’.

She wasn’t annoyed with Sherlock’s absence so much as the fact that his absence left her alone with Moriarty, who seemed perfectly comfortable to sit in their study, soaking up the warmth from their fire, drinking their coffee from Joan’s favourite mug. Every once in a while, Joan would feel those eyes on her, hot and intense, as if Moriarty was reading some script Joan had tattooed across her cheeks.

“You shouldn’t frown so much,” she had said some hours ago when Joan had caught her staring.

Joan had remained silent as she rearranged her glasses and looked down, suddenly and stupidly self-conscious of the frown line between her brows.

Are you expecting anyone?” Moriarty asked now in that same distracted tone when there was another ring and Joan, who realised that of course the ringer wasn’t Sherlock, shook her head.

Joan opened the door to find Oren, wrapped up in a scarf and thick coat against the harsh January winds. At his feet, was a large cloth bag and in his arms a heavily blanketed bundle. He smiled at her when she blinked at him, and then the bundle. “Hey, thanks for this, Joanie.”

Joan felt a sense of dread creep over her, as realisation set in.

 It was Wednesday.

She had forgotten it was Wednesday when, all through Tuesday, she sat, dividing her time between  frowning at case files and wearily watching Sherlock and Moriarty bicker about the best methods of infiltrating a ‘secret’ government website. And now it was Wednesday, which meant Oren was here with little Matilda. Matilda, who Joan had diligently promised to babysit while Oren and Gabby both attended a conference in Chicago until later that night. Joan tried to hide her surprise and dismay as she was handed the sleeping infant.

Another thank you, a hasty kiss on the cheek, and then Oren was in a cab, leaving Joan in the doorway, holding a baby who, as if sensing her father’s departure, began to stir and mewl softly.

With a heavy sigh, Joan removed the blanket covering Matilda’s head and looked down at her six, no… seventh month old niece. The baby looked like Oren, but she had soft, curly brown hair that defied genetics, and which, according to Gabby’s mother, came from their side of the family.

 “I might’ve located the shipment number,” Moriarty called out as Joan walked in with Matilda now squirming in her arms.

“Um, we have a situation.”

Moriarty looked up from her maps and stared at Joan for a second, before confusion set in. “What’s this?” She eyed the squirming bundle warily.

Joan felt sheepish, as she completely removed Matilda’s blanket, revealing a sleepy-eyed, wispy-haired baby, in a red and purple striped onesie that made her look like something out of a Dr Seuss book. If Joan wasn’t about to keel over from exhaustion, she would have made a cooing sound at the sheer adorableness of it all. “My niece. I promised to babysit last week and completely forgot.”

Moriarty blinked, her gaze focused on Matilda, who was extending chubby fingers towards Joan’s hair. “No matter.” She looked unnerved. “I’ll just relocate.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Joan asked, as Moriarty made to gather up the papers around her.

She ran a hand over her own tired face before saying, “It’s a baby, Watson.”

Joan huffed in annoyance, as she tried to extricate her hair from Matilda’s grasp. “I know what it,” she caught herself, “she is.”

Moriarty stood up, her arms overflowing with maps and various other papers. “Yes, well babies have the tendency to be messy and noisy, often simultaneously.” Her eyes were still trained on the Matilda. “I need to make a number sensitive phone calls and a squalling infant does not make for particularly pleasant background noise.”

“She’s not noisy,” Joan objected, unexpectedly affronted at Moriarty’s inference about her niece. “Or messy,” but then, as if on cue, a sour smell assaulted Joan’s nose and she forced her face to remain impassive. Pride stopped her from saying anything other than, “Fine.”

“Alright then.” Moriarty passed her, then, looking back over her shoulder added, “Let me know if Sherlock contacts you, I’ve discovered something he may be interested in.”

Joan nodded slightly and watched Moriarty make way her out, presumably to the library.

It was more than an hour later, after Matilda had been changed, fed and burped, that Joan saw Moriarty again. The blonde woman was leaning against the doorway, scowling, as Joan bounced on the balls of her feet, trying to pacify the “squalling” baby.

“She’s overtired,” Joan said, by way of apology, her voice dwarfed by the baby’s cries. Moriarty must have recognised something about the strained, desperate look on Joan’s face, because her scowl was suddenly replaced with a strangely sympathetic expression.

“Sherlock has noise-cancelling headphones in one of his drawers,” Joan called out.

But then Moriarty was in front of her, looking slight and harmless in her fuzzy woollen socks and a soft, worn sweater. “Give it here,” she said in a firm, sort of resolved tone.

On instinct, Joan clutched the baby tighter and recoiled. Giving her niece to Moriarty, seemed wildly counter-intuitive.

Despite Joan’s reaction, Moriarty held out her arms expectantly, as if she was asking for load of laundry, instead of a tiny, wailing human.

“I- I don’t-” Joan had no idea what to say. “I’m trying to calm her.”

“Well, you’re clearly failing,” Moriarty said with a sigh, her words almost lost against the screaming. “She can sense your anxiety, which makes your pulse irregular. You can’t create a steady rhythm if your pulse is irregular.”

Moriarty pursed her lips and looked at Joan with an exasperated expression and Joan looked down at Matilda, red faced and wet-cheeked. She really, really wanted the screaming to stop, and it wasn’t as if Moriarty was going to take the baby and run… she hoped. Gingerly, Joan delivered the infant into Moriarty’s arms.

Moriarty for her part, looked impassive, and completely unmoved by the exchange. The baby continued to cry, until Moriarty turned her over, to rest Matilda’s cheek against her shoulder. She leaned forward and back, forward and back, gently rocking the baby in a steady rhythm, until Matilda’s cries simmered down to whimpers before stopping altogether.

Joan watched at this entire interaction with wide eyed bewilderment. There was fluidity to Moriarty’s actions, an artlessness, and yet also a distinct lack of… warmth, Joan would later think. The other woman didn’t cuddle the baby, or nuzzle against her the way Joan had, but she did hold her gently and tight and continued rocking until Matilda was well asleep.

“How did you do that?” Joan’s voice was seeped in wonder.

“It’s simple science,” Moriarty answered softly. “The consistent oscillation acts to regulate her sensorimotor systems.” When Joan continued staring at her as if she’d just breathed fire, she continued, somewhat hesitantly. “I-did some reading on the subject when-,” she swallowed down whatever she was about to say and finished instead with, “quite a long time ago actually.” Joan thinks she may have tried to smile, but it ended up as more of a grimace.

“I can take her now,” Joan reached out, wanting to end whatever was happening in front of her, and the confusing knot of emotions it created.

 But Moriarty whispered, “Sit down,” to Joan’s hovering form. “You’re obviously exhausted, Watson.”

“What about-”

“She’s fine here.” And Joan watched Moriarty’s palm gently smooth Matilda’s perspiration-damp hair down, before cradling her head.

“Okay,” Joan gave in, her eyes still trained on the bizarre scene in front of her. “Okay, just for a little while.” The couch was soft and warm and the last thing she remembered was the image of Jamie Moriarty, holding her baby niece, walking back and forth in front of the dying fire.

Sherlock arrived home less than an hour later.

He was greeted by the sight of Joan Watson, curled up on the couch, a light blanket thrown over her as she breathed deeply. Clearly she’d been there for a while. On the floor, just in front of her, sitting comfortably against a mountain of pillows, staring intently at a map of the New York subway lines circa 1986, was Moriarty, whom he sometimes called Jamie and once, earlier that day, had accidentally called Irene.  She looked up when he entered and said, “Good, you’re here. I’ve discovered two possible locations you might find relevant. The first might be rather difficult to gain access to, but I’m confident…” And this was when he stopped listening.

Sherlock was far more interested in the baby, asleep in the crook of her arm, who looked an awful lot like his Watson, but for her light, curly hair. In a quiet voice, half-terrified, half-confused, he asked, “Just how long have I been gone?"


End file.
